Ever? The Fonz. Hands down. It’s literally “cool like Fonzie.”

I craved a nickname growing up. Not just because of my Happy Days lunchbox, but because a nickname meant you fit in. (Thanks, therapy.)

The closest I ever came was a college buddy who, to this day, still calls me Billy Bob.

So imagine my joy the morning I emerged from my tent at my first festival and was greeted by multiple people with, “Morning, Cap’n Bob!”

I didn’t even question it at first. I didn’t care why the people around me were suddenly calling me Cap’n Bob. I was just thrilled to have a nickname at all.

I’m still not sure where “Bob” came from. I introduced myself as Rob, and they’d been calling me Rob for the previous two days and nights. But whatever. Even a nickname with a typo was fine by me.

The “Captain” part, if you’re wondering like I was, came from the multiple pirate flags flying around my camp. They were part of a still-unresolved, slightly unhinged act of war on the high festival seas, which you will be able to read about here one day soon.

Car camping Gathering of the Vibes 2015

The crew who named me all worked at a brewery. I called them the brew crew. I hope you’re all doing well.

That weekend, Cap’n Bob was born.

These days, Cap’n Bob is my festival alter ego. He’s the voice whispering, “buy the tickets.” The siren singing “We’re doing a fest, get in.” And the ever-present harbinger of FOMO.

But his spirit started long before that festival.

I’ve always loved music. Far too lazy to learn to play myself, I stuck to listening and worshipping those who did. I grew up pretty eclectic. Pop and rock from my older sister. Big band from my grandfather. ’50s and ’60s oldies from my martial arts sensei. Crooners Sinatra and Johnny Mathis from my mom.

My young vinyl path went something like this: Donny and Marie, The Monkees, Bay City Rollers. Then KISS, Pink Floyd, Zappa, Zepplin, The Allman Brothers, Springsteen, J. Geils, the Doors, etc.

But certain albums stood apart for me: KISS Alive, KISS Alive II, The Song Remains the Same, Live at the Fillmore East, Frampton Comes Alive.

They were live.

Then in college, I heard the Grateful Dead. Really heard them. Not “Truckin’” or “Friend of the Devil” on the radio. Bootlegs. (Thank you. You both know who you are.)

Live, improvisational rock music grabbed me hard. For all the right and wrong reasons. I saw over 60 Dead shows with Jerry, driving thousands of miles just to get my Phil.

We lost Jerry in 1995. In 1996, my daughter arrived. Then my son. And just like that, live music faded into the background.

Lights fade slowly. Cue the sad closing theme from the 1970s The Incredible Hulk.

Years later, with the kids grown, a neighbor took me to see Furthur. It was fun. I saw Dead & Co. The memories came back. But everything truly changed in 2015 when I camped at Gathering of the Vibes.

Four days. Solo.

That’s when a bus came by, and I got on again.

This time, dozens of bands fill the bus. Festivals. Venues. And all the food trucks. But what really hooked me were the names at the bottom of the posters. The undercards. The young, hungry bands still dragging their own gear out of their own vans.

These days, I make it to a handful of festivals each summer, plus enough live shows to get me through the off-season. I’ve met wonderful souls on and off the stage. Their energy, and the music, turned it all into a literal, life-changing ride.

Oh no. Did I just sound like Frasco during one of his soulful, touching moments? Sorry. (Note: That was Eat Jam Camp’s first public Frasco dig, solely because we love the guy.)

Years later, while strolling through a Levitate, I heard it again. “Hey, Cap’n Bob!”

It was one of the brew crew. It was great to see them. And even better to hear the name again.

The nickname never fully stuck, but I used it as my login. And maybe here, it finally will.

Until next time, have a great set.